


In The Quiet

by 221brothermine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, I'm going to hell for incest shipping, rape mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-10-12 11:01:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10489416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221brothermine/pseuds/221brothermine
Summary: The only solace is in the dark of Jon's chambers.





	1. Chapter 1

Sansa’s fingers are gentle with the needle and thread. The way she smooths out the wrinkles of each fabric with the palm of her hand is tender, just like the rest of her. 

Seeing her sitting by the fireplace in his chamber and tending to his torn clothing is the only time Jon feels like he is back in the Winterfell under his father’s rule. Even then, it is difficult to pretend. Sansa is a grown woman now. When she stands she towers above him. The angles of her face are sharper, and she doesn’t giggle nearly as much.

Her face had been like stone on the battlefield. She raised her voice at him in the tents. She was blunt with him. She acted in a way other women would consider unladylike. 

Jon cannot grasp what transpired between the last time he had seen her before her departure to King’s Landing and when he saw her again at the Wall. She doesn’t speak much of the life she was living up until the moment she saw him, and he doesn’t press her for details. 

The fur covers and soft sheets of his bed are a luxury he isn’t accustomed to. Before he knows it, the words on the pages of a report he is reading begin to blur. He rolls up the parchment and sets it down on the bedside table, then looks to Sansa.

He wants to tell her that he is tired and that she should probably head to her own chambers for the night, but something makes him hesitate. He is too tired to ask, he tells himself, and it feels rude to disturb her.

The fire of the hearth illuminates her face in a warm orange glow. Her shoulders are relaxed. How long has she been here? Gods, it must’ve been hours. When she first came in, the sun had only begun to set.

She looks up as if she senses his thoughts and lowers the garment in her hand. “I can go if you’d like. I only just realized how late it is.”

“It’s all right,” Jon says. “You can stay.”

 “You need your sleep, and I don’t think I’ll be done for a few hours. The stitching on your vests is terrible. I’ll need to redo all of it.”

“You won’t disturb me,” he insists.

Jon doesn’t much care for the stitching on his clothes. When the wights come, it will be the last thing on his mind. But seeing Sansa fuss over it reminds him of when she was younger and her biggest concern in life _had_ been the precision of her stitches and whether Septa Mordane approved of them. It is easier in these moments to see her as unchanged.

She is standing, having been ready to leave, but she lowers herself back onto the wooden chair at his words.

Ghost is sleeping beside him. The last thing he remembers before dozing off is the feel of his fur against his hands.

* * *

 

Once Jon is asleep, Sansa thinks about some of the servant girls and anyone else that might have seen her enter Jon’s chambers. She is wondering whether they think it strange that she has not left. Then she dismisses the thought, knowing fully well everyone but the guards outside the door are asleep. Besides, why would they care? Who the King in the North decided to invite to his chambers was no one’s business but his own.

The clothes Jon had worn throughout the day never made it off him. He fell asleep before he could. Sansa wonders if he neglected to partly out of modesty. She has been intruding on his privacy for the past few days but usually left before he retired to his bed. Today he fell asleep early. She doesn’t blame him. He isn’t used to being a ruler of an entire kingdom.

The lavishness being bestowed upon him, although far more modest than the South’s by comparison, leaves him grunting out curt thank yous that are reminiscent of their lord father’s. Sansa thinks about the way kings are supposed to expect gifts and be accustomed to luxuries. She thinks about how they learn how to curve their mouths into charming smiles when they thank their supporters. Jon is stoic and his smiles are rare. He will never be like a king is supposed to be. Nothing will make him forget the cold and sleepless nights at the Wall. Even if he becomes ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, there will still be men who will call him “bastard”. The word has followed him his whole life and she admires the way he has learned not to flinch when people mutter it under their breath. She was a Stone for a time, but she slipped out of those chains easier than water. Jon would never have the luxury.

* * *

 

Sansa jumps awake and finds the fabric and needle still lying in her limp hands. Shadows dance at the edge of her vision. She looks over to the bed and sees the faint outline of a male figure slumbering in it. She cannot make out the face- it is too dark. Her mind draws a picture for what she cannot make out in the dark and she thinks she sees a grotesque figure, dark and twisted and glaring at her. She squeezes the arm of the chair and tries not to cry out.

The white mane of an animal beside the figure stirs recognition. A direwolf. _Ghost_. Sansa remembers where she is, and _when_ , and she lets out a sigh of relief.

The fire in the hearth has died. A chill has settled into the chamber. How long has she been asleep?

After a few deep breaths, Sansa’s heartrate settles, and she stands and wanders over to the bed. Jon’s breathing becomes audible once she is closer. It’s even and steady. She watches as his chest rises and falls. For the first time, his forehead is free of crease lines. Without thinking, she raises her hand and reaches for his face.

Ghost perks up one ear and opens an eye. For a moment, Sansa wonders if he will growl at her, thinking she means to disturb Jon, but the direwolf relaxes at the sight of her and goes back to sleep.

Sansa’s fingertips touch Jon’s cheek. It’s warm. She strokes downward and feels the bristles of his beard. Jon is a man grown. The angles of his face are sharper than they used to be, his hair thicker.

There is enough space between the edge of the bed and his body, and Sansa sits there. A warmth radiates from him that is comforting in the chill of the room. She feels as though she is in trance and hasn’t completely woken up, nor shaken her nightmarish vision. She isn’t sure what time it is, only that it is dark. The sun might rise in a moment, or it might be another few hours. Either way, she should sleep a little longer.

Sansa slowly lowers herself down beside Jon. There is just enough space for her to fit. It isn’t the most comfortable position. There’s no room for her to spread herself out, but she keeps her arms close to her body.

Jon’s breaths fall against her neck when she lays her face at the edge of the pillow beside him. She shuts her eyes. She feels warmer with the heat of his body next to hers.

He stirs next to her and she turns her head to look at him. He rolls over on his back and his hand grazes hers in the process, falling on the bed next to it. Sansa holds her breath, wondering if he’ll wake up, wondering if she shouldn’t have come so close and disturbed him. Jon stills again and she sighs with relief.

As before, she observes the lines of his face. His eyes are moving under his lids. He must be dreaming. She only hopes there are no nightmares. On the few occasions she had seen him sleep, he muttered words of battle or jerked his body, as though jumping back from an invisible enemy.

The hand lying beside her is so close he is nearly touching her, and it is too tempting not to reach for, so Sansa closes her hand around his own. It’s warm like the rest of him. His hands are strong and coarse and probably big enough to envelop hers entirely. She thinks about how much he has bloodied them with the hands of enemies, and how many women he might’ve touched. Her breath hitches in her throat.

Without thinking she squeezes his hand as a response to her own thoughts. His breathing changes and his hand jerks away at the feel of her touch. It bumps against her shoulder when he lifts it, then brushes her nose, and just when she looks over at his face to check if he is awake, she sees his eyes snap open.

Jon bolts forward into a sitting position. His hands are on her in a flash and she has no time to react before he nearly knocks the wind out of her with the force of his hands pushing her down against the bed.

She thinks he’ll recognize her and let go, but it is dark in the room and she cries out when the palms of his hands begin to dig into the skin of her shoulders. She isn’t resisting, nor is she an armored man, but with the way he’s forcing all of his weight against her, you’d think she was.

“Jon-” she gasps.

He is panting and his long hair falls in front of his face. His eyes look obsidian in the dark. Sansa’s heart is beating wildly in her chest. Surely he would never hurt her… The shadows in the room are closing in again.

Ghost is alert beside them and lets out an unsure growl. He is looking at Jon, red eyes glowing, trying to understand his master’s movements.

Jon looks at the direwolf, then back to Sansa. He blinks. “S-Sansa?” he stammers.

His grip on her shoulders softens, but he doesn’t let go. “Why are you here?”

* * *

 

Jon roams his eyes over her face, searching for an injury or a sign of urgency in her expression.

“I was tired,” she breathes. She pulls herself up into a sitting position.

For a moment, he is not sure she is really there in front of him. Her skin is pale like moonlight, and her skin feels soft, like silk. If he lets her go she might fade away like an ethereal spirit in a dream… Something had been disturbing his mind a moment ago. He can’t remember the exact nightmare, but he knows he was having one. It must have had something to do with the wights, or a frightening secret about his mother, or watching a girl with hair like fire bleed to death in his arms… It didn’t matter. He was awake now and Sansa was there. She _was_ real- she has been for weeks now- and the dreams were just dreams.

“I was tired,” she repeats. “I wanted to lie down.”

He looks at her. Her eyes are wide, like a deer’s. He didn’t mean to jump on her. He was used to sleeping alone, and it was an instinct he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to suppress.

“Why aren’t you in your chambers?” he says, voice gruff from sleep. She doesn’t respond, just gives the slightest shake of the head. She is still wearing her direwolf dress, and her hair is in a braid, but it is slightly unkempt, like she had been fussing her head against the pillow.

A strand of red hair falls in front of her eyes and he lifts his hand, brushing it behind her ear.

Sansa does a strange thing, then. She grabs his hand just as his fingertips brush her earlobe, turns her face towards it, and kisses the inside of his palm.

He watches her. It’s faint at first; her lips tickle his skin like the wings of a butterfly. Then both of her lips press fully against his skin. He tries to say something but can’t.

When she works her way up, she licks his fingers with her tongue.

In a blur of movement, he shifts forward and wraps his hand around her waist, pulling her against him. He cups her face in the hand she made wet with her mouth and leans his face forward.

She licks her lips and that’s where his eyes go. His thumb grazes over them, and they’re red. Even in the dark, he can see that they are red, whether from the cold or from a balm she uses, he doesn’t know.

He kisses her. His head feels muddled, as if he is drugged with milk of the poppy, so he moves without method. Their teeth clash. The kiss is wet. He doesn’t care. He only knows he wants to taste her the way she was tasting him. His heart pounds in his chest.

His foot grazes against fur. Jon remembers Ghost is here with them. He tries to recollect whether the direwolf had been in the room the whole time, or how long ago he went to sleep, but he can’t.

He breaks the kiss. She leans forward, following his mouth, but he leans back to catch his breath. He moves his hand from her cheek to the back of her neck and his fingers find purchase in her hair. He comes back to her, smoother this time, trying not to overwhelm her like her had moments ago. Her mouth is still too eager and she is breathless from the fervency of the first kiss, but she relaxes into his pace.

The way she is pushing her body into his sends a jolt to his cock. It presses again the fabric of his trousers. His grip on her waist tightens. One of her hands is buried in his hair. When he slides his tongue into her mouth, she pulls his hair and moans.

The weight of the bed shifts and Jon hears Ghost land on the stone floor with a thump. Jon moves to the now-empty left side of the bed, pulls Sansa away from the edge, and settles her down onto the mattress.

He’s hovering over her again, and again her eyes are looking up at him wide and alert, but this time her face and neck and chest are flushed red instead of pale, and her hands are pulling him closer.

He struggles to undo his belt with one hand, using his other hand to keep the weight of his body off of her. The strings of his trousers are tied tightly and won’t budge and it is too dark for him to see why he can’t manage it. He looks down at himself realizes that he is still fully dressed. How tired had he been when he had gone to bed? Had he even bothered to lock the door before falling asleep? The guards will alert him if anything is wrong, and a locked door wouldn’t hold back a real threat for long either way, but still- he was never unsure.

He had let her stay in his chambers last night. The guards watched her come in and not come out. Now she was in his bed.

He looks at Sansa and finds her looking at him, expectant. Apart from the sound of their heavy breathing, it is quiet in the room, now that they’ve stopped shuffling. She sees that he has stopped trying to undo his belt and moves her hands down to his crotch, starting to undo it for him.

“Sansa,” he says. She pulls on a tied string and he feels his trousers loosen.

“Sansa,” he repeats. She doesn’t look at him and begins to pull down on the fabric.

Jon grabs both her wrists with one hand and pushes them away. “Stop.”

She looks up at him and swallows. “What is it?” Her voice sounds small, and she is small, all of her.

 _Gods_ , Jon thinks, rubbing his face with his hands. He turns away from her, swings his legs over the edge of the bed, and sits with his elbows on his knees. _What time is it?_ He looks to the door and sees a sliver of light in the crack underneath. It’s dawn. He should be dressing to break fast with the men in the Great Hall.

He mutters this to Sansa. “You should be getting ready as well. It’s going to be a long day. We’re hunting for game today, and rationing supplies.”

“It’s early. There’s still time.” Her hand grabs his shoulder. He flinches.  “You’re King in the North,” she continues. “You wouldn’t have to explain yourself.”

“I promised the men I’d be there early.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

The tone in her voice tempts Jon to caress her face and plant a kiss on her forehead. Instead he stands and says, “Go back to your chambers, Sansa.”

* * *

 

Sansa watches him go to the far wall, where there's a basin filled with water. He crouches down, gathers water into his cupped hands, and splashes it on his face. He stays there for a moment, both hands bracing against the edges of the bucket. He hangs his head and sighs, and Sansa thinks of their father.

She feels cold again now that she is alone in the bed. She is thankful the windows are covered, keeping the room dark and safe from prying eyes. She has no desire to see the daylight. She does not want to go despite Jon’s command. She can still feel the calm of the night in her chest. As soon as she steps out into the daylight and goes to her chambers, she’ll be fussed over by her handmaidens, then surrounded by the roaring men at the Great Hall. Even if she goes to the godswood, Littlefinger would find her there. She almost voices these thoughts aloud but makes note again of Jon’s weary frame and keeps her silence. He will be making the decisions with the men, not her. He won’t have time to go to the godswood. Even if he did, she isn’t sure if he believed in the old gods, or if he believed in gods at all. She gets out from the bed slowly, without looking at him, only at her own feet.

“I’ll see you in the Great Hall,” she mumbles at the door. He gives no reply when she leaves, just stays as he is: still and silent and staring at his own reflection in the water.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank all of you for your wonderful feedback on the first chapter-- I certainly wasn't expecting it. I will be replying to all your lovely comments soon. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Sansa wanders out to the edge of the godswood and looks to the tops of the trees, the way the rising sun sets the leaves of the weirwoods ablaze. She shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath. The Northern air is felt with the lungs. It wasn’t like the humid, hot air of King’s Landing, but harsher, less forgiving.

She does not have time to sit underneath the weirwood, but this small moment would have to do for the day.

On her way to the Great Hall, she passes the kennels. The dogs are barking. They sense the movements of the kennel master that is about to fill their trays with meat.

“Lady Sansa.” The kennel master bows his head. He is a tall man with long, greasy hair and a leather tunic on his shoulders that is thinner than the fur coat she wears. Sansa wonders if he is more Northern for it, or if she is just highborn. When she was a girl she didn’t think of these things, but the Northern people were not her people to think of then.

She acknowledges the man with a nod.

At the entrance, she sees one bloodhound standing still, not barking like the others. Its eyes are black and they follow her movement as she passes, as if recognizing her.

In the Great Hall, people bow their heads when she enters and part ways to let her pass to the head of the table.

Jon is already sitting in place. A servant sets down a plate of steaming food in front of him while another pours him drink. He keeps his gaze lowered but gives a nod and mutters a ‘thank you’ when they leave.

Sansa’s chair squeaks when she moves it to take a seat. Jon’s head twitches in her direction for a moment but he says nothing to her, preoccupying himself with his food.

Her food is brought to her moments later, and she takes to eating.

The men of House Glover sit at the far corner of the hall. They do not raise their voices too high, and Robett Glover’s face seems to burn when he meets Sansa’s gaze before he bows his head.

House Hornwood sits in the middle, and even at the break of dawn, they feast and throw back their heads to drink the wine. Sansa thinks of Lord Halys Hornwood and his son, Daryn, and how they fought alongside Robb until they were killed. Even after Robb lost the war, they needed no renewal of faith when Ned Stark’s bastard called them to arms. Their feasting did not upset her.

After the death of their lord and his son, they lost their Lady Donella Hornwood to Ramsay, who wed her, raped her, and locked her up in a tower until she starved to death.

 _We found the poor harlot with blood in her mouth and her fingers chewed off by rats,_ Ramsay had told her. _There were rats underneath her dress, too, nibbling away like men at a whorehouse._

Sometimes, when he left her locked in her room, she wondered if the rats would come for her, too.

The dark hair of Lyanna Mormont is pulled back into tight braids. Sansa sees no women among the Mormont company, who sit nearest the high table at the left, and wonders if the girl does them herself. They are uncomplicated but done skillfully still.

Sansa’s own hair is tied into a simple braid. Servants normally tended to her hair to make elaborate hairstyles, but no one apart from herself has touched it since she escaped Winterfell and made her way back. She can’t do them as neatly as her mother had. There are always loose strands.

The wildlings sit to the right of the high table. They are merry, like the Hornwoods. Sansa recognizes the red mane of Tormund Giantsbane before he turns his head to look at Jon. He rises from his seat and walks to the high table.

“My lord.” He bows and making exaggerated waving motions with his hands. His eyes sparkle when he looks to Sansa. “And my lady.”

“I’ll have none of that,” Jon says. “Sit.”

Tormund chuckles and pulls out an empty seat in front of Jon. “Tormund Giantsbane dining with a king. If my mother ever lived to see the day, she’d surely shit herself.”

Sansa glances at the servants standing stock-still at the wall, expressionless, and hopes they did not overhear the words. Tormund is Jon’s friend, but Jon is titled king, and kings do not make for close friends.

“Are the men prepared to hunt?” Jon says with a nod to the table of wildlings.

Tormund nods slowly. “But I have low hopes. The game likely fled those woods long ago with the second coming of the Long Night.”

“We do not know yet if it is the Long Night,” Sansa says.

They both look at her. She looks only at Tormund, but Jon’s gaze sears her skin.

“Beyond the wall we learned to expect the worst,” the wildling responds. “All the same, the wights always make game flee.”

The Others. She hasn’t seen one yet, but they are all she hears about now.

They talk for the rest of the meal until finally it is time for the men to go on the hunt. Jon gives the lord of each house their orders. When Lyanna Mormont approaches the table, Sansa smiles at her and admires the way the girl distributes Jon’s orders to her own men without faltering once in speech or stern expression.

When the Great Hall is mostly empty, Jon clears his throat and says, “Does the promise of supplies from the Vale still stand?”

He hasn’t addressed her all morning. He drinks from his cup of water, which he substituted for the wine shortly after breakfast began, looking far ahead with a passive expression.

His words have no meaning at first when he says them. She only feels that they were addressed to her, and her mouth hangs open. She knows she looks the fool.

“I-I don’t know.” What trance had she been in all morning that she was being awakened from now? Sansa tells herself to breathe again, to dismiss the thoughts of a night made confusing by dark shadows and loneliness.

“Then I would ask you to find out. If it does, I want to know how much they can supply and how soon.” Jon sets his cup on the table and stands.

Sansa’s cheeks grow warm. He intends to leave without looking her way. She has shamed him. Jon’s mind is plagued with battle plans and the harsh winter to come, and last night she burdened him with her own wants, not thinking of how to feed the mouths of the men that would die for her. He had to _remind_ her.

“I’ll speak to Lord Baelish,” Sansa promises.

* * *

She tells herself that it is all just a story still. It feels like they are playing a game. They are making a game out of one of Nan’s old tales; Jon is a knight; she is a playing at queen. Sansa has never seen a whitewalker and she wonders if she ever will. Although, despite her curiosity, her seeing a whitewalker in person would probably mean they are on the losing side of the war, and she would do anything to prevent that.

Lord Baelish’s chamber is the Guest House, a building separate from where Sansa sleeps. He is among the other nobleman of the Northern houses. Still, this was a step lower from what his chambers were like in the Keep. He never showed a sliver of discomfort in the midst of humility, though. He had many skins to wear and could slip into them easily.

Sansa straightens her shoulders when she hears movement on the other side of the door, lifting her chin and turning over the words she planned to say over in her head one last time.

The door creaks open and out of the shadows steps out Lord Baelish. He smiles at the sight of her, but her eyes give away his caution; he scans her face and the scene outside. “I wasn’t expecting you this early in the day, Lady Sansa.”

“I don’t mean to disturb you, Lord Baelish,” she says politely, “but this is a matter that requires immediate attention."

“Then by all means, come in.” He steps back and opens the door further. Sansa feels her throat go dry. She cannot immediately make out the interior of the room from outside because there are no windows in the room and no fire in the hearth to light it. This will be a short conversation, she tells herself. He cannot refuse her his promise. Visiting was simply a courtesy.

When he shuts the door behind him, the room is even darker, and Sansa draws in a deep breath.

"What is it? You seem troubled.” Petyr lays a hand on her shoulder and Sansa represses her impulse to flinch.

“We all are, Lord Baelish,” Sansa says. “Winter is here and there is no knowing how many years it will last this time. Dead men wait just on the other side of the Wall to pray on human flesh. We are already ill prepared.”

She has never lived through a winter. Neither has Jon. Jon is more prepared, though, she thinks. He weathered the bitter cold of the Wall for years, and he knew more than she did about rationing supplies- it was something she never had to worry about while living her life at court, or even before then, at Winterfell, as a noblewoman.

“People are easily distracted by their own personal wars,” Lord Baelish agrees.

 _What’s your war?_   Sansa thinks. When she meets his gaze, she sees his eyes trained on her. He was always analyzing, always gauging her reactions. He must think she does not see behind the layer of feigned concerned he liked to shield his face with. Whatever personal war he was fighting, she wanted no part in it. In King’s Landing, she had heard enough stories about Littlefinger to know he was a player in a dangerous game, just like the rest of them- Cersei, Tyrion, Jaime, Varys, Stannis, the Tyrells. He was a powerful player in a game where he controlled many pieces, and she had been his pawn. She followed him because she wanted to believe that he— unlike so many around her—wanted the best for her underneath a cold and sly exterior that suggested otherwise. She still wonders how things would have turned out if she hadn’t allowed him to handle her like a scrap of land to be bought with reassuring words and praises, and sold to the first bidder that came along.

Sansa surveys the room and sees a pile of Lord Baelish’s clothing piled up on the bed with a carrying bag beside it.

“I am glad you stopped by,” he says. With his hand pressing against her back, he guides her to a chair by the fireplace, then sits in the chair opposite hers. “I have important news to share with you. But please, you speak first.”

The fireplace is unlit. Sansa feels a chill go through her but straights her back and pretends she isn’t bothered. “The supplies promised to us from the Vale: when are they to arrive, and how plentiful are they?”  

“That’s where I’m heading tomorrow morning, my lady,” Lord Baelish says, motioning to the clothes on his bed. “To make arrangements in the Vale. Yohn Royce will accompany me. Expect my return in a few weeks’ time; I want to oversee the arrangements thoroughly.”

Lord Baelish explains that the lords of Arryn have agreed to provide a steady stream of crops harvested from the fertile lands of the river-valleys for as long as those lands stay fertile and winter does not overtake them. They have pledged their men to fight for House Stark if House Stark protects the Vale in return.

Sansa nods, satisfied. That was all the information Jon required. Then she remembers Lord Baelish saying he had news of his own and asks him to explain.

Lord Baelish clears his throat and sits forward in his seat. “There is terrible news from King’s Landing, my lady.”

“What is it?” Sansa asks. Her heart rate quickens. She tries not to think about King’s Landing, but when she does, she always wants to laugh—a hysterical kind of laugh at the irony of hating what she once wanted more than anything. It was a warm dreamed quickly turned into a suffocating heat. Wolves, after all, do not do well in the sweltering heat. Here it was again, that suffocating feeling. She steeled herself.

“Cersei Lannister now sits on the Iron Throne,” Lord Baelish says.

Sansa holds her breath. Her heart beats faster. She can feel his eyes on her and wonders if he hears it, hears the fierce drumming in her chest.

“How?” she croaks. She keeps her body perfectly still, but her voice, it betrays her.

“Tommen is dead. Loras and Margaery Tyrell have perished. Chaos reigns in King’s Landing and she has come out on top of the ladder,” Littlefinger divulges.

Tommen, another boy king, dead. The Tyrells... Sansa thinks of a day in the gardens where she was handed flowers and filled up with dreams of Highgarden, a sweet-smelling place, a colorful place, where she would know nothing but the soft caress of a step-sister’s hand on her cheek.

She asks for further detail, and he explains that the city has been licked with the flames of wildfire, finding victims in most of the priests of the Faith of the Sevens, along with the High Sparrow. His informants from the South took great risk in sending the news. King’s Landing is swarming with soldiers and the Queensguard are keeping a tight leash on who comes in and out of the city.

“You are the first I am telling this to, but soon enough, the news will spread on its own. Be prepared for the fallout,” he warns.

She does not know how long she sits there in silence, and does not remember getting to the door. Lord Baelish leans in close to her ear and in his gravelly voice, says, “I suggest you remind your half-brother to be mindful of the news. He may know what lies beyond the Wall, but he still lives behind it.”

 There’s that word again. _Half-brother_. She says nothing as she opens the door and steps outside.

There is a flurry of snow cascading from the sky—the sun is hiding behind a dome of grayish-white clouds. She turns to say goodbye to Lord Baelish, who is leaning against the door frame, hands folded behind his back.

“I sense your distrust, Sansa,” he says, his eyes softening. “I don’t blame you, nor do I expect forgiveness. But I will do everything in my power to win back your faith in me.”

The snowflakes are pelting against her face and she lifts the hood of her cloak over her head. She nearly doesn’t recognize the dispassionate sound of her own voice when she speaks. “I don’t place faith in people anymore, Lord Baelish. I place faith in deeds.”

* * *

 

A black raven is perched on the windowsill when Jon arrives to his chambers from breaking fast. It squawks at him when he approaches, as though offended for being kept waiting. As soon as Jon retrieves the small scroll of parchment tied to its talons, it spreads its wings and flaps away high above into the falling snow.

The letter is from Dolorous Edd. It is brief. Everything is running smoothly at the Wall. No one has caused disruption after Jon’s execution of the traitors. They need more men. They wouldn’t be able to take a serious hit from beyond the Wall. The nights are getting longer. They need more men.

Jon sighs. More men, more weapons, more food. The numbers on the record-keeper’s scrolls that he looked over the night before are blurring together in his mind. He would need to go over them again until he knew what resources lay where.

He thinks of Sansa.

He never knew how bold she could be. He tries to understand what had possessed her to come into his bed and touch him in ways the blood between them should not have allowed.

She was young, still. Misguided. He can’t imagine what kind of upbringing she had all these years in King’s Landing, what they’ve poisoned her mind with.

He’d seen Ygritte in his dream last night. He only remembers that there was terror and blood stains on his hands. Images flash through his mind but he can’t put the fragments together. Often now he finds himself turning his dreams over in his mind. He wonders if dying had been like that, like a gossamer dream- there was something that he’d seen, but it slipped away as soon as he regained consciousness, yet had been there all the same.

The dream was to blame and nothing more. The dream, and Sansa’s red hair. Long, soft. Not unlike the hair of the girl he had kissed once in a cave. The dream and what he saw in front of him had someone melded into one, somehow, and the warmth he sought in the moment he sought out of foolish fear. Nothing more.

* * *

 

On her way back to her rooms, she passes again by the kennels. The kennel master is gone now, but the dogs remain in their cages. She glances around. There are servants shuffling in and out of the Great Hall with plates and food and buckets and mops, clearing out the morning’s setup, soon to prepare for dinner. They are a good distance away. She steps onto the thick layer of hay covering the dirt floor and slowly makes her way down the rows of kennels.

Most of the hounds are asleep. One of them perks up its ears when it hears her approach and cracks open an eye but closes them once she passes. At a kennel at the very back, there is a hound that isn’t sleeping. Instead it sits on its hind legs, perfectly still as it watches her approach with unreflective, obsidian eyes.

It looks like the same bloodhound from this morning- something about the way it focuses its gazes on her, like it _knew_ her, was the same. She steps closer to the cage.

She had always been afraid of the bloodhounds as a little girl. When she was barely old enough to walk, they had towered above her. Her lady mother had warned her about them, how they were only fit to be handled by the kennel master. They are loyal, but only to the one who disciplines them.

“You’re only a dog, I owned a true wolf once who was twice as big as you,” she whispers. The bloodhound continues staring, unblinking.

She inches closer and closer, until she is only a foot away from the iron bars. That’s when the dog jumps.

A moment ago it seemed undisturbed, and now it slobbers at the mouth, barking and growling and standing on its hind legs. It claws away at the iron door with all its strength, like it wants nothing more than to get rid of the barrier keeping it from Sansa.

She gasps and nearly trips when she jumps back from it. With one hand, she braces herself against the stone wall to her right.

What would it do to her if it had its way and there were no iron bars between them?

Understanding that the beast would not let up its barking, she trudges away.

* * *

 

Of course it is him that she stumbles into when she hastily retreats from the kennels.

The fur coat she made him sits well on his broad shoulders. He is looking sternly at some point in the distance when he spots her. He stops. She can see a shift in his expression. His eyes flit away to the snow-covered ground, and she knows he is thinking of the night before.

After a pause, he makes his way over to her, a frown etched in his forehead. The sound of the hound’s barking echoes off the kennel walls and travels outside to where they stand. He looks behind her, following the source of the noise.

“What are you doing here?” he inquires.

Sansa can feel her hands shaking, but she tries to keep her voice controlled. “I was on my way to my rooms, and to see you.”

For a moment, he is silent. She can see the way his shoulders tense, and he won’t meet her eyes. He swallows before he answers. “I’m on my way to meet with the other houses. Best make this quick.”

She tells him about Lord Baelish’s trip to the Vale and the promised supplies soon to come.  

He nods curtly, playing with the pommel of his sword. “I’ll tell the other lords.”

“There’s something else.” Sansa steps closer, looking around for any prying eyes. “And it would be best to speak about it in private. Ser Devos should hear it too, but only him.”  

He sighs through his nose, and she wonders if he is thinking about the way she’d kissed his hand, if he is angry about it and that’s why he refuses to look at her, even when her tone implies the worst.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you guys seen the new trailer? What did you think? I died, personally. 
> 
> As always, thank you for the kudos and the lovely comments. They mean the world.

Ser Davos drags a hand down his face in a show of agony.

Sansa is taking deep breaths, and Jon has his hands placed firmly on his hips, not looking at either of them, but instead at the books lining the shelves along the walls. All of them are dusty and worn, their contents filled with fading records, Winterfell and Westeros' histories, and literature.

“How many fighting men are sworn to the Lannisters?” Jon asks.

“I’m not sure,” Sansa says.

Jon hangs his head. “How many were there the last time you were there?”

Sansa shakes her head. “I don’t know. Ten thousand. Maybe more.”

She hears him sigh through his nose just like he had when she had overstepped a boundary with Lord Glover. How many boundaries has she been overstepping of late? Or was it just the one? The one that makes every word spoken to him feel like a transgression, like a shrugged-off touch?

“Is that all Lord Baelish told you?” He says _Lord Baelish_ with bite.

“Cersei is keeping a tight leash on the city. His informants would’ve risked exposure if they made a quest for detailed information.” She isn’t sure of the words herself as she says them—she will never be sure where Littlefinger is concerned—but she feels defensive in the moment with Jon’s tone grating her.

“There’s not much we can do except keep our eyes sharp and wait for the inevitable decree from King’s Landing,” Ser Davos pitches in.

When Sansa and Jon had arrived together, the library had been empty save for the librarian, an old man with a limp to his step who Sansa doesn’t remember from before she left Winterfell, and, as predicted, Ser Davos.  Jon asked the librarian to give them a moment alone. Ser Davos was tucked into a corner of the library, bent over a book with large print as his index finger ran along the page and he mouthed the words as he read them. A little wooden figurine of a stag sat at the table beside him.

He is sat at the edge of table now, looking between the two of them, his brows creasing.

“She’ll never let us be. When she finds out you’ve been declared King in the North, she’ll order you to step down and swear fealty to her, or else. And God knows what she’ll want to do to me. I’m a ‘traitor to the crown’,” Sansa says mockingly. “She thinks I killed her son.”

In her nightmares she still sees Cersei’s cruel twist of the mouth, the threatening way she tilts her head when she is challenged. She can still remember the of smell of the wine that wafted off the queen whenever she breathed in Sansa’s direction, or, more often, sneered.

“No better than Bolton,” Ser Devos mumbles, scratching the prickly grey hair on his head.

Sansa isn’t sure which Bolton he means, the illegitimate or legitimate. Nevertheless, she remembers the letter Ramsay had sent to Jon, how he hadn’t sugarcoated the words, how they had been penetrative enough for her to remember the feel of his fingers digging into her skin, forcing her down, drawing blood from everywhere, anywhere.

Ser Devos is right—Cersei is not much different from the Boltons. She would conquer without mercy.

After a long silence, Jon turns to face them and says, “Our war lies beyond the Wall. What Cersei Lannister does doesn’t concern me. If she wants war, let her come. The walkers will take care of the rest. We’ll spare no resources on that.”

They discuss what to tell the other lords about the news, but not much else before Jon leaves for the Great Hall where the men wait for him.

Ser Devos gives a sighs. “I suppose there’s not much we _can_ do.”

Sansa is still thinking of Cersei’s cruel, green eyes, Lannister eyes, and the way her lips had stretched over her teeth, displaying them in full as she hissed and roared as Joffrey lay dying at her feet.

“You don’t seem sure of that, though, my lady,” Ser Devos observes. Sansa looks up and finds him studying her, and she is amazed, maybe even worried, despite the candor of his nature, that he sees the words she had been too afraid to say to Jon.

“I’m not,” she admits.

“You knew her well, the queen?” Ser Devos asks, not in challenge, but in a search to understand Sansa’s hesitation.

“I lived in her court for years,” Sansa says. _I wish I didn’t know her well_ , she wants to say. She wishes she didn’t know Cersei’s favorite wines, didn’t remember the way the queen holds her fork. They feel like wasteful memories, and shameful, too, when she tries to recollect words her father had said to her, words she knew were wise but that were now lost to the wind, lost to her childish petulance and a naïve impression that she would hear them repeated again for years.

She hates remembering that, when she dined with Ramsay, she was always afraid to be sat next to the hand that held the knife.

“And?” Ser Devos presses further, not unkindly. Sansa appreciates the gesture, the way her experience means something to him.

“She’s relentless. She won’t stop if the world froze over if it meant she could make us bow and kiss her feet,” Sansa says.

Ser Devos chuckles without much humor. “And the world is about to freeze over.” 

* * *

"They said you were screaming."

"It's nothing."

"Have you talked to the maester?"

She looks tired as she drinks her tea. He wonders if she slept at all last night.

They sit in the Great Hall at the edge of the table closest to the kitchens. A servant made Sansa the tea and Jon could hear the woman move around pots and opening and closing drawers beyond the door to the kitchens, left slightly ajar. It’s dark, and maybe he’s imagining it, but Sansa’s fingers look like they’re shaking when she grips the cup’s handle.

When she doesn't answer, he leans his weight forward onto his left arm, which he rests on the table between them. "Maybe milk of the poppy would help for a few nights."

"I've tried it all already. The grasses. The teas. The milk of the poppy. There’s isn’t anything in the Seven Kingdoms that will make it stop," she says with an apathetic certainty that unsettles him.

He can’t remember the last time he’s tried to fight against his own night terrors. He prefers them, though, over not dreaming at all. Waking up from a dreamless sleep reminds him of waking up alive again at the Wall. It makes him feel hollow, makes him grapple with his chest to find the beating of his own heart. 

A dry laugh passes Sansa’s lips, distracting him from his thoughts. "There’s still wine left. They say it helps." 

“Drinking wouldn’t become you,” he tells Sansa. He feels, in that moment, like Ned Stark.

Jon remembers the time their lord father warned Jon about the kind of devils wine makes of men. It was after he’d caught Robb and Theon in the kitchens, only boys of fourteen, drinking a bottle of sweet wine from the South. Jon had accompanied them. Robb said it would be all right, that Jon wouldn’t get in trouble (Jon knew he meant it wouldn’t be enough for Catelyn Stark to throw him out of Winterfell), but Jon still didn’t drink. “When we’re kings, we’ll feast like this every day,” Theon had declared.

He’d sworn this, yet didn’t know the price they’d pay for being kings, Jon thinks.

Sansa says nothing, only drinks her tea.

The guards had woken him, telling him that something was wrong, that Lady Sansa was screaming.

He started, his hand reaching for Longclaw at his belt before realizing it rested at the side of his bed. Then the guard said, “T-there’s no danger, my lord. It’s happened before. It’s just this time—well, she hasn't stopped.”

He’d nearly tripped over himself rushing outside. By the time he reached her chambers and opened the door, there was no more screaming. He found her sitting up in bed, cheeks tear-soaked, air coming in and out of her like she’d been running a long way.

“I used to feel safer with Lady,” Sansa tells him with a faint smile. He almost asks if she feels safe now, then remembers her words to him in the tent about protecting.

* * *

Sansa leads the wolf forward by the scruff of its neck until they are outside Jon’s door. She pets him and feeds him the skin of a goose that she begged off a servant cleaning away the remnants of dinner from the Great Hall. 

They stop outside Jon's door and she knocks.

The door creaks open and Jon's face is illuminated by candlelight.

"I think he got lost."

At the smell of his master, Ghost presses his nose through the crack in the door and whines. Jon digs his fingers into his fur and smiles.

"He was in my room on the bed. I woke up to him sniffing my foot," Sansa says.

"Did he scare you?" Jon asks.

"No."

"I let him in. I thought you wouldn't mind." 

Sansa feels the warmth from the candle's fire and can see the hot wax dripping and gliding off in droplets away from the wick, like hot tears. 

At first she doesn't understand, and then the concerned look on his face from the early hours of that morning in the Great Hall come back to her.

"Oh," she says. "He's to keep me company?"

"If he's a bother, I'll take him back. I just thought…maybe you would like him being with you.”

Bringing back Ghost was like relieving a dutiful knight from his duty without cause, Sansa realizes. “Are you sure?” she asks. “Won’t he miss you?”

Jon scratches the direwolf behind his ear. “He’ll be fine. He likes you for feeding him treats under the table. He takes up too much room on the bed now, anyway, the old pup.”

When Sansa lays in bed that night with Ghost warming her feet, she thinks of things she wanted as a girl and of the chivalrous knights she loved. She thinks of Jon’s sweetness. For the first time since she returned, she falls asleep feeling like she used to, when the only world she knew was the snow-kissed Winterfell.

* * *

A week later, Littlefinger’s letter arrives, as promised. The letter is handed to her by the maester while she stands in the covered bridge between the Great Keep and the armory, overlooking the yard.

The wooden boards creak beneath her feet when she walks across the length of the bridge. The sound is familiar to her, even after all these years. She remembers watching the way Arya would run across it, squealing with delight at the top of her lungs as Robb or Jon chased her. She remembers her father, too. She could picture him now, how he would walk with a slow gait across the bridge to reach the armory, his expression grim.

Sansa never thought she would be here in his place so soon.

In the letter, Littlefinger reassures her that supplies will begin streaming in from the Vale in two weeks’ time; the time accounted for organizing distribution, and for how long it would take the supplies to reach Winterfell.

In the Great Hall, she quietly informs him about the letter.

He wipes his lips from the beef stew they’ve been served with a cloth on the table and clears his throat before answering. “Good. We should send a letter thanking them for their generosity.”

“You mean I should,” Sansa says, gathering stew into her spoon and bringing it to her mouth. The liquid is thick and savory and warms her throat.

“Aye, I mean you should.” He smiles, and Sansa’s heart nearly skips a beat. It is one of the few true smiles he has given her this week—a sign of a returned ease around her. She feels foolish, for feeling so affected right then, but can’t help the twitch pulling up at the corners of her mouth when he adds, “You’re better at the formal things.”

Her joy subsides when she remembers she hasn’t finished divulging all of the details in the letter.

“Lord Baelish mentioned a delay,” she says. “He wants to oversee the arrangements.”

“He doesn’t trust them to do it themselves?” Jon asks.

Sansa looks around the room. The houses are all preoccupied with their own, and there are occasional eruptions of raucous laughter. No one else sits at the high table with them today.

“There’s been some…resistance,” she says in a whisper. “Not everyone in the Vale is eager about you being declared king.”

“I wear no crown,” Jon objects.

“Yet King in the North is what you are called in every part of Westeros. Eventually, maybe even across the narrow sea. You won’t be able to shake the name.”

Jon sighs. She catches the movement of his hand clenching where it lies on the table beside her. It is fully-healed, now, from where he had painted it scarlet with other men’s blood.

“With your approval,” she continues, “I’ll write a letter to Lord Baelish and another to the lords of the Vale, to emphasize that we are grateful.”

Jon nods. “Stop by my chambers tonight and I’ll look them over. Tomorrow, make sure the first ravens carry them.”

Sansa’s spoon stops on its way to her mouth in midair.

 _His chambers_.

Her chest constricts. She resumes the motion of her spoon but tastes nothing when the stew reaches her tongue. She feels herself nod, her head bobbing up and down, but her tongue stays frozen.

_Strong hands gripping her hips. Mouth hot against hers._

He resumes eating, scraping out the last of his stew from the bottom of the bowl and taking a large bite of the bread. 

Does it mean nothing to him, to invite her to his rooms again?

 _Be sensible_ , she tells herself. _Think nothing of his flesh on yours. This is a war._

* * *

He squints at the scrolls before him and moves the candle closer. He doesn’t say a word as he reads, his expression neutral. Sansa looks around the room, though she’s been there enough times to know where everything was and that Jon kept it looking plain and practical. The fire in the hearth crackles and sends glowing embers flying into the air. She ambles over to it and stretches her hands forward to warm them.

After a moment, Jon clears his throat.“Very good. Have the maester send them with the first light.” He rises from his seat and the chair scrapes against the wooden floorboards. He walks over to her and hands her the letters.

She nods. “I will.”

At the door, she pauses, resting her hand against its surface. It’s cold, and the bitter wind from outside sneaks in beneath the door and bites at her feet. “What do you feel for me, Jon?”

She never planned to say the words, they leave her mouth like the exhale of a bow releasing its arrow.

Her back is to him and she cannot turn around to face him, to see whether he is terror-struck or pained or clenching his jaw in impatience. She is a fool, she knows. Wanting to have her brother. Perhaps Cersei Lannister left a part of herself in Sansa—a wickedness that came with craving the skin of your own blood.

The silence is deafening. She can hear the sound of her own heart racing. She waits, knowing he is struggling to find the right words.

“What happened that night should not have happened," he begins. "If I hurt you, forgive me. I was not myself.” He sounds grave and keeps his voice low; the tone of shame.

“You didn’t hurt me.”

“It shouldn’t have happened, all the same.”

“You wanted me.” She turns around to face him. “You almost had me, Jon.”

The fire makes shadows dance across his face. His eyes flit back and forth across the floor. He is lost; she is cornering him the way her wolf-blood willed.

He shakes his head. “I didn’t know what I wanted.”

“You knew,” Sansa challenges. She steps closers to him, her heeled boots thudding against the floor. “I knew, too.” Her heart is fluttering like a bird’s wings now. The rush strengthens her, makes her bold. “I would’ve let you.”

He’s shaking his head again and turning away to face the window. “Enough of this, Sansa.”

Outside, the hounds begin to bark. No, just one. Is it the same one whose eyes she thought she knew? The one who would’ve torn her face to pieces were it not for the metal bars between them?

“Don’t turn away from me, Please, Jon,” she says.

He turns to face her, obliging her request, and his brows are furrowed in frustration. “What do you want me to _say_ , Sansa?”

“Tell me the truth.” She walks to him, and the closer she gets, the further his gaze slides to the floor to avoid grazing even the edge of her dress. “Tell me why you pushed me away. You wanted me.”

“You’re my sister,” he answers. His eyes are far away and for a moment Sansa thinks he is speaking to himself. “You’re my sister, Sansa,” he repeats.

She thinks of Cersei as she cares nothing for dishonoring herself. Dishonor is what weighs Jon down, she knows.

On the tip of Sansa’s lips is the story of the Targaryen family history, of the Lannister sitting on the Iron Throne despite the blonde babes she birthed.

A scream outside the door stops her short.

It lasts no longer than a second, like the wind has been knocked out of the screamer. Sansa is unsure she heard it until she senses Jon tense, too. They both look at the door. Jon steps past her and treads to it with slow steps.

A loud thud emerges outside the door of his chambers, followed by sound of choking. They stand stock-still. A second later, dark liquid seeps from underneath the door.

Sansa gasps and stumbles back.

Jon moves fast. He grabs a pail of water from the table and douses the fire in the hearth, then blows out the candle on the table. The room goes pitch black. Sansa can’t see, even with her eyes wide open. It becomes hard for her to breath.

She hears the sound of a blade and knows Jon has unsheathed Longclaw. She stumbles in the dark, trying to find the shelf above the fireplace for purchase. She jumps when her hands land on a moving thing before realizing it is Jon’s chest.

Jon shuffles in the dark until he has both her hands firmly in his grip. He pulls her to him.

“Don’t make a sound,” he whispers close to her ear.

Then he’s tugging her along.

The doorknob rattles again and Sansa's heart drops to her stomach. Someone has come to kill them. They killed the guard, and now they will go after them. Was it one person, or many? Tears fill her eyes, but it doesn’t matter. She can’t see a thing. She lets Jon’s calloused hands pull her across room. She can hardly orient herself. She might step on the blood coming from beneath the door.

Her knee bumps into something hard and sharp. The bed frame, she realizes. Jon pulls her down and they sit side by side, backs against the bed.

The doorknob rattles again, but louder, much louder. Sansa cries out, unable to stop herself. Jon’s hand wraps around her shoulder, and then she feels the palm of his hand against her mouth. She holds her breath, knowing she has made a mistake, disobeyed his instructions.

He leans his head close and the hairs on his jaw tickle her cheek. His breath is warm in her ear. “Stay quiet,” he orders. “I need you to hide. Get underneath the bed. Don’t come out until I say it’s safe.”

The doorknob rattles again. He removes his hand from where it covers her mouth and the air feels cool at her lips.

“Jon, don’t,” she pleads, feeling around for him in the dark. Her hands meet the smooth material of his jerkin. She can feel his chest rising and falling rapidly, though his breathing is steadier than hers. Her hands shake and she steadies them against him. She doesn’t know what she doesn’t want him to do.

“ _Go,_ Sansa _,_ ” he urges, his hands pressing against her back, trying to get her underneath the bed.

Obeying, she removes her hands from his chest, lies down flat on her stomach, and crawls.   

The wooden splinters on the floor are rough against her arms. She bumps her head against the underside of the bed and the pain stings, but she bites down on her lip so as not to make a sound. 

Her eyes begin to adjust to the darkness. She wipes her tears away with the back of her hand and tries to locate Jon. She felt him rise the moment she began crawling underneath the bed. He is no longer behind her now. She looks around for the faintest outline of his boots, but sees nothing but the wooden floorboards and the thin, dust-filled cracks between them. Where has he gone?

The window is open, Sansa realizes. What if another intruder come through there? She draws her legs inward as best as she can, fearing someone will come up from behind and drag her out kicking and screaming.

The doorknob stops rattling. It grows so quiet Sansa can hear her own panting. She covers her mouth with her hand. She strains her ears to hear Jon, but nothing gives him away. No shuffling of feet, no breathing. Her view doesn’t extend beyond a couple of feet around the bed, so she guesses he must be somewhere at the edge of the room. Is he hiding? Is he bracing to fight whoever was at the door? She isn’t sure he is even _in_ the room. What if he escaped through the window?

 _No,_ Sansa thinks _. He wouldn't leave me. He wouldn't._

She can see the blood from underneath the door draw closer. A thin stream of it, blacker than the night, winds its way past the bed. It could have been no one’s but the guard’s. She's greeted him every time she came here. She tries to remember his name, but can’t.

The doorknob rattles again, more gently this time. Sansa hears a metallic clinking. Then, there is a _click_ —the unmistakable sound of a lock being opened.

The door creaks loudly as it opens, and someone steps into the room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figured I'd put out a new chapter before the new season. So soon now. As always, your comments are welcome and very much appreciated.

_I have the wolf’s blood,_ Sansa thinks. _I am a Stark within the walls of Winterfell. No one will harm me. No one will harm Jon._

The air from outside is ice and goose pimples form on her flesh. The footsteps are heavy and coming toward her. When they appear within the perimeter of the bed Sansa clasps her hand over her mouth, even as she hardly breathes. They have the silhouette of a man’s boots and they stop dead in front of the bed to the left of her.

The person crouches down, places their palms on the floor, and lowers their head.

Their eyes meet hers, black in the darkness. She can make out a flash of teeth- a man is smiling at her like he has just found his prey.

Before Sansa can scream, the man jumps to his feet. There is a sudden clash of steel. It’s Jon, Sansa realizes. He’s attacked.

She’d seen men fight up close only once in the tourney at King’s Landing. It had made her cling tightly to her lord father, and when she’d seen blood spurt out of a man’s neck like juice squeezed out of a lemon, she’d screamed. Only seeing something terrible was better than just hearing it. Without sight, the imagination runs wild. She doesn’t know which of them is winning or losing, if blood has been drawn, who’s grunting in pain.

It’s a struggle that is not loud enough. There is no commotion outside and one comes to help them.

Sansa sees the scuffling of feet and she can’t make out which are Jon’s and which are the man’s and has only the sound of steel to know that the struggle is ongoing, that Jon still stands.

She wonders if she should come out or if that would be folly. Staying hidden seems wrong—though it’s no use when the man had already found her. What if Jon needs her help?

Just then, there is a growl that is unmistakably Jon’s, but the man is silent in his advances whatever they are. Only briefly she thinks she can hear panting that isn’t Jon’s.

There is a crash like wood splintering and someone falls to the floor. There is the clang of a sword falling after. Sansa can make out a form struggling on the floor, and only when they roll out of the way from an incoming strike and towards the bed does Sansa realize it is Jon, his hair a mess of curls undone in the struggle. For a moment their eyes meet and then he is on his feet again.

 _He’s without a sword,_ Sansa thinks. Her heart is beating so fast she thinks she is sure to die before the man can kill her first.

Any moment now she thinks she will hear Jon cry out as a sword pierces his heart. Without a sword, how long can he go on? This man moved into the room with a purpose, and for the brief moment she saw him she recognized the dark intent in his eyes, they were Ramsay’s eyes, a hound’s eyes.

It could be hours that she hears the same shuffling of feet, the grunts and shouts. It remains dark outside from what she can see of the window and that is how she knows it hasn’t been days.

Another sword drops to the floor. The opponent's, Sansa thinks—or maybe it is Jon’s again after he reclaimed it. Then there is the sound of something awful. A different kind of struggle, with strange breathing. Sansa dares to crawl forward to the edge of the bed for a better view.

There is a pair of feet kicking oddly, as if the person is reclined and tapping the floor, like dancing. There is the shuffling of clothes against clothes and a wet, raspy noisy from someone’s throat. Choking, Sansa realizes. It doesn’t take long before the sound is cut short, like a taut string being cut. A body hits the floor heavy. Sansa can only see the feet. One foot twitches, then goes still.

Sansa’s blood is rushing and she cannot make out the man left standing from her position. She hears breathing but it seems distant. Would it matter now, if she stayed hidden? If it was Jon on the floor, then she would be dead even with heart still beating. If it was Jon on the floor, she would not care if it beat or not.

“Sansa?”

His voice comes out raspy and coarse like stone. Sansa crawls out, stumbling in her rush.  He stands with chest rising and falling and his hands are clenched in fists on either side of him and she steps over the hand of the man on the floor so she can grab him.

He’s sweating, the fabric of his arm is wet where she grips it. She realizes it might be blood but she doesn’t care because he is standing, not kneeled over bleeding, not the man on the floor.

* * *

 

Jon stares at the man on the floor like he might stand again. He might. Somewhere in the strength of his own hands there’d been a fine line between life and death to snap and he isn’t sure he had.

Sansa’s presence doesn’t register as anything but a non-threat. He doesn’t feel the weight of her hand on his own arm until she squeezes it. She’s saying his name, he realizes.

There’s a roaring in his ears and Jon thinks she tells him he’s bleeding. The thought doesn’t bother him. He steps away from her grip and kneels in front of the man. He checks for breathing. The man’s chest is still. If he has a heart, Jon doesn’t feel it there, either.

He spots Longclaw on the far side of the room by the window. The man had knocked the blade out of his hand after they stood sword to sword for half a minute, feet digging into the floor. His arms ache from the resistance still. He crouches to pick up the sword.

He makes for the door, looking at Sansa only once in passing to make sure she isn’t at death’s door.

* * *

 

Joren Mormont is still bleeding out from his neck when Jon’s feet stumble over him. The blood sticks to his fingers when he puts his hand at Joren’s throat. There’s no pulse, he didn’t expect there to be, but he can’t stop himself. Two hours ago he had heard his voice announcing Lady Stark’s arrival. His eyes were blue but softer than the ice of a walker’s eyes. Jon shuts them closed, leaving smudges of red.

In the courtyard below he can see the kennelmaster locking the kennel door and turning to leave for the servant quarters. It takes Jon a few tries before the man hears him and goes to him. He runs for the guards upon hearing the urgency in Jon’s command for them.

Jon’s shouting is heard by those in the guest house parallel to the Great Keep. Half of them emerge half-asleep, the other half looking giddy and ready to fight.

The guards sound the horn and soon enough all of Winterfell is awake.

Jon goes back into the room. Sansa is sat the bed, staring at the assassin's still body. More so, it’s like she’s staring past him.

“Are you hurt?” he asks her. She shakes her head ‘no’. He looks her over again to make sure. He’d heard men say they felt as good as a holy man with gaping holes in their chests.

The guards arrive and he only has time to tell Sansa to stay in the room and ask them to swarm it before he is out the door again.

Ser Davos, only a few doors away, has emerged from his chambers at the sound of the commotion. He goes to Jon’s side instantly, looking at him like he’d just come back to life again.

The guard at Sansa’s chambers has the same bleeding throat. The door is shut but the lock is undone. From behind it comes a whining and a scratching against the door. Jon pushes it open. He finds Ghost is sitting on his haunches. The wolf lets out a bark.

There are no rough markings on the door. The assassin had been savage with everything but the locks. He picked this one too. Either Ghost stopped him short, or he realized Sansa was not there.

Jon instructs the men to search the perimeter of the castle for signs of intrusion, and to make sure no one else was creeping in the shadows. The guards have looks on their faces like they are afraid he might chastise them, but Jon gives out commands without malice, only volume. He will deal with whoever was on guard at the gates tomorrow. Or rather, when the sun is well up, he realizes.

The stable master is a heavy sleeper. After knocking for a full minute, Jon is ready to have the guards take down the door in case the man had fallen victim to the assassin when a light emerges from the crack beneath the door. A heavy set man opens it, squinting from behind a candle. When he recognizes Jon, he blubbers out an apology. They need four horses for four men, Jon instructs, to scout beyond the walls of Winterfell and near the edge of the Wolfswood.

“Do you anything about this man?” Davos later asks him when Jon is making his way back to his chambers. Ghost trots behind them. Jon feels hot like fire even without his furs. He wants to douse himself in the cold.

“We’ll search his body but I doubt we’ll find a house sigil,” Jon says.

“Are you hurt?” Davos asks, struggling to keep up with Jon’s quick pace. Jon remembers there’s cuts on his face and blood on his hands, and something burning his skin below his left armpit, but he’s forgotten it in the rush.

“I’m fine,” he responds.

The movements of the assassin come back to him. It was a style of fighting like nothing he’d seen; the man glided on his feed and wove his sword through the air like it was weightless.

He mentions as much to Davos.

“He may be from the Free Cities,” Davos says. “He sounds like a swordsman of Braavos.”

He came one many times too close, Jon thinks. Still, he wasn’t quick enough, even in the dark, even when he’d disarmed Jon. Jon stretches his fingers. He can still feel the bob of the assassin’s throat where he struggled to breath. There are scratches on his hand where the man tried to claw him away.

He pushes the memory away when they arrive at his chambers. He turns to Ser Davos.

“Whoever’s awake will want to know what’s happened. Tell them the truth: there’s been an intrusion but that there’s no longer danger.”

“What will you tell them come tomorrow?”

“Until we know more, nothing,” Jon says.

Davos nods. He places a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “See the maester, lad, though I can’t tell where you’re bleeding from. And take your sister too, perhaps.” He motions with his head at the door.

The four guards had shut the door and stood with swords drawn, but moved aside when Jon made to enter.

They moved out the body but there were still smears of blood on the floor. Jon doesn’t remember where he’d cut the man but it is sufficient to know that he had.

Sansa is still sitting on the bed when he enters. A candle has been lit and sits on the table. It makes shadows dance on the wall when the wind blows in from outside. The window has been closed shut. The wooden chair that Jon had broken in a poor attempt to disarm the assassin lies on its back on the floor, its back splintered in half. Sansa looks up when he shuts the door behind him and Ghost.

“What’s happening?” she asks, voice quivering. Ghost goes to her and pushes his nose into one of her hands, whining because he doesn’t like her being afraid.

“The men are searching to see if there are more intruders.”

“Men with his intent usually acts alone.”

“Just to be sure,” he says.

She looks him over, then asks, “Are you hurt?”

“Just a few scratches.”

“There’s blood.”  
  
He remembers the guard. Lyanna Mormont will have to bear the brunt of the news on the morrow. “It’s not mine.”

Ghost curls up at Sansa’s feet and looks up at Jon with questioning eyes, as if to say, _Are you certain?_

The North still spread word that he was the greatest swordsman who ever walked, even more now, after the battle. There was the problem of how he died and came back. Yet he felt more mortal now than ever, realizing how closely he brushed hands with death. He strokes the pommel of his sword. Longclaw was a part of him. When the sword fell to the floor, everything that followed was a gamble. What would have happened if he failed in footing, or moved out of the way an inch too short?

Jon walks to the stone basin against the wall, grabs the block of soap on its edge, and begins to scrub his hands. “He tried your chambers first,” he tells Sansa. “Either Ghost stopped him or he knew you were elsewhere.”

“He came to kill us. Or just me.” Her voice sounds deepened, and cold, like she is used to saying this and is more angry at whoever sent the assassin than scared that she’d almost died. Losing his sword meant gambling with her life, too. If he’d been struck down, she would have followed. The thought makes him look at her, but her back is to him, her shoulders stiff.

Whatever the fault was in keeping the castle secure, he knows it was his own doing. He’d overlooked something, put men in the wrong places.

“We’ll find out who did this, Sansa.” The words come out weaker than he wants them to be.

The soap and blood begins to swirl together in the basin. He picks at the blood that’s dried and matted on his skin.

“We'll make them answer for it,” he says, firmer this time. It is a promise he will keep. He doesn’t need Sansa’s faith in it, only what burns red-hot inside him.

She is silent for a moment before asking, “Was anyone else hurt?”

The coldness melts there into something that makes her sound like a queen who gives her people reason to love her. The thought stirs something inside him, something else warm, but not the bloodthirst of a moment ago. He’ll need her by his side tomorrow in the Great Hall, he knows, for her words.

“No. Not that we’ve seen,” he tells her. He glances over his shoulder for a moment, noticing the disarray of the room—the blood, the chair, the unlit fireplace, his own stink of blood. He has half a mind to call in the servants and give Sansa a chance at relief. “There are four guards outside your chambers now. Mine will escort you back. You should rest before dawn comes.”

She gives no response. He hopes he has not offended her. He does not want her to go, not truly, but that was the order of things.

* * *

 

It would be wise to take his suggestion and go to her rooms and wash herself of the dust she had gathered from being under the bed, and of the small bit of blood she’d taken from his sleeve.

Instead, she says, “He found me under the bed.” She feels a knot forming in her throat. “I thought—”

He’s preoccupied with washing his hands but the water stops splashing and she knows he’s looking at her.

When she doesn’t continue, he asks, “Sansa?”

She sucks in a breath, her shoulders rising unsteadily. “I didn’t know where you were.”

He moves somewhere behind her, but she doesn’t dare turn around. He can’t see her face. What a helpless girl she would be, if she showed him her face. It would be like showing a mother a bleeding knee and crying like the Others had come when it was only a scratch.

“I stayed hidden for advantage,” he says somewhere close behind her.

She shakes her head because he doesn’t understand and because that’s all she _can_  do. The knot in her throat hurts now and if she speaks she knows her voice will betray her.

The bed shifts from his weight when he climbs onto it. “Did you think I would leave you?”

She can’t help herself when a sob escapes her. Sansa wishes he hadn’t come close. Now he will see her pathetic tears and wet nose and think nothing of himself, even when he is the one covered in blood. Sweet, honorable Jon. They should sing songs about him. They will, surely, after all the fighting is done. And what is she? Nothing but the girl who needs his protecting without giving anything in return but tears.

“Come here,” he says. His voice is low and gentle. The sincerity is something she longed for from someone for so long; it feels sweet to give in, and there's no use in hiding now. He puts his hand on her shoulder, and she doesn’t resist when he tugs her to him. She turns to face him and sinks her face into his chest.

There’s still blood on him she can smell, metallic and sharp, mixed in with the leather scent of his jerkin. He wraps his hands around her and rests his head on top of hers.

He lets her cry into him and Sansa realizes she can’t remember the last time she had done that—truly let her tears flow without a thought to the consequences.

“I won’t leave you,” he murmurs into her hair. “You’re safe here.”

When he’s close like this, arms wound around her tight, she believes him. Just this once, she thinks. Just this once she’ll pretend she lives at the happy end of a song.

The last time she’d cried to someone like this must have been before she’d left Winterfell, to her mother. Often times she’d wept into Catelyn's dress because of something Arya had done to her treasured possessions. A torn dress or a stolen hairbrush, and Sansa had been in ruins. The thought of it makes her laugh in between sobs. What she would do to have Arya be the reason for all her unhappiness again.

Jon’s massaging the back of her head with one hand and it soothes her, though she can feel her head begin to ache like it always did after a bout of tears.

She turns her head so that her ear rests against his chest and wipes at her eyes and nose with the sleeve of her dress. She is far from being a lady now, but she doesn’t care. _Jon has his blood, I have my mess of tears, and now it’s all mixed together._

“I had a doll once," she mumbles.

Jon moves his hand up and down across her back. “A doll?”

“The best dollmaker in King’s Landing fashioned it for me. It had silks in its dress. Beautiful enough for a princess.”

She still remembers where she left it: on the vanity in her rooms at the Red Keep. It always sat straight, she made sure of it, and she glanced at it whenever she was being fussed over or wound tightly in a dress, remembering who gave it to her. It was never a happy remembrance. It was gone now, no doubt— thrown away with the rest of her possessions. Maybe a child in Flea Bottom had it, and treasured it more than she did when it was gifted to her.

“Father gave it to me. I told him that I didn’t play with dolls anymore. I was so angry at him for killing Lady, but I should’ve thanked him for what he did to her.”

“You were only a girl.”

“Arya wasn’t like that,” Sansa protests. If Arya fell over, she got up and dusted herself off. I only cried, Sansa thinks. “She knew how much Father loved us. Why didn’t I? I disappointed him.” She still remembers how torn he’d looked when she gushed about wanting so much to stay in King’s Landing to marry Joffrey. She made him think she hated him for wanting to send her away.

Jon pulls back to look at her. A frown is deeply etched in his forehead. His hair is in a slight disarray and Sansa isn’t sure if it’s dirt or blood dried at his temple. His thumb grazes over the soft skin under her eye, wiping away a tear. “Father loved you. If he’s watching over now, he’s nothing but proud.”

“How could he be? I’m a coward. He was never afraid.” Even walking up the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, Eddard Stark was firm-shouldered, she remembers. He could only spare her a glance then. The last time he looked at his daughter, she was standing side by side with Lannisters, asking him to lie.

“He was a good father, letting you think that,” Jon says. She looks up at him with a frown. He shakes his head softly. “But he was always afraid, Sansa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a bit of liberty with canon here and there, as you've probably noticed. Joren Mormont is a character I invented.


End file.
